And Everything In Between
by ThePushThatComesToShove
Summary: Takes place after the rally. Spot finds Racetrack knocked out in Irving Hall after the rally and decides to take him out for some air. Race finds out that the Brooklyn leader is more approachable than he thought. Race/Spot, hints of Jack/David, Blink/Mush
1. Chapter 1

**And Everything In Between**

**Chapter One.**

"Hey. Hey, you hearin' me?"

His vision flashes as he blinks. The world is spinning around him, and his head is pounding an inconsistent, irritating beat.

"Yeah," he mutters. He takes a moment to clamp his eyes shut, counting to three before opening them again. It's clearer this time; he can make out a pair of hard, blue eyes staring down at him.

"You got hit pretty hard there. Everyone's gone now."

Groaning, he starts to sit up. His knees burn from sliding against the floor, his head is still throbbing, and he can't quite figure out where he is. It's nice to know he's somewhat comprehensible if he can hear another human being speak.

"Take it easy, there. Race, right?"

He nods. That's his name. Race, Racetrack. He find his hands and rubs his eyes, hoping to get a better look at the guy in front of him. When he can focus his gaze, Race finds Spot Conlon crouching in front of him, his cane hanging from loose fingers.

"S-Spot." He can't hide his surprise; what's Spot Conlon, leader of the big, bad Brooklyn Newsies doing down here talking to him? "Uh. What's goin' on?"

Spot eases onto the floor, settling his weight onto one hand. From the looks of it, they are outside the Irving Hall, the lights from nearby signs glinting off Spot's hair and eyes.

"Jack got taken away." Spot digs a hand into his pocket and produces a cigarette. He puts it in his mouth before going back in to find a match. "Somethin' 'bout bein' an escaped prisoner, I dunno. Didn't catch alla it." He pauses to light up, taking a few shorts puffs before taking a long drag. "Went back inside to see if anythin' valuable was left behind and found you."

It's hard not to stare at the cigarette in Spot's lips. It's hard not to stare as it moves as he talks and entices him with it's orange light and wispy, grey smoke. It's hard not to stare because Spot goddamn Conlon basically _rescued_ him. At best, they've exchanged a few lines since the Brooklyn Newsie arrived and here he is, downright staring.

"Got a problem?" Race's eyes return to Spot's, suppressing a shiver of nervousness when he sees the crystal clear irritation. "My smokes. Get your own."

Race complies with no hesitation, reaching into his pocket to withdraw a small cigar. He holds it in his mouth as he searches for a match or a lighter. He almost panics when he comes up empty.

Sighing loudly, and blowing smoke into Race's face in the process, Spot takes the cigar out of Race's mouth and puts the end of it to his cigarette. Once it's lit, Spot takes a drag of the thicker roll, watching Race carefully, before handing it back.

All Race can do once the cigar is in his hands once more is stare. Again. Man, he must have been hit _hard_, his mind can barely process the fact that Spot Conlon just lit his cigar and smoked it, too.

"You's always been this stupid, or is you just a weaklin' who can't take a hit?" Spot lifts an eyebrow at him. "'Cause if you ain't smokin' that thing, I'd be glad t' take it off your hands."

Race opens his mouth to protest, but breath falls out of his mouth instead of words. He's quick to turn the lapse into a low sigh before he finally says, "I don't remember gettin' any smarter, so's I guess I's always been this stupid."

That got a tiny smirk out of Spot. "Didn't think so."

They smoke for a while in silence. Spot's cigarette runs out first, and when the Brooklyn Newsie stamps it out, Race offers his dying cigar.

"Nah, don't need it." Race just nods and replaces it in his mouth, watching with tired eyes as Spot stands. "Gonna walk. You goin' t' bed now?"

Spot levels a challenging look at him. Does he want to retreat to the lodging house and nurse his waning headache, or does he want to chance a night with Spot Conlon?

Race stands. It's a good question, but with an easy answer; of course he wants to spend time with Spot, this guy is... Well, he's _Brooklyn_ for god's sake. He has to be the toughest guy Race knows.

"Nah. Night's still young, 'specially 'cause I missed halfa it 'cause I let meself get soaked," Race replies, smiling wryly. The movement in standing up caused his head to pound with a little more vigor, but a deep drag helped battle it away.

Starting down the steps, Spot doesn't even look over his shoulder as he continues speaking, "You always this self-deprecatin'?"

"You know that that word means?" Race retorts, allowing himself a smirk of his own, "Hey, I put down everyone. 'S just what I do."

When Race joins Spot at the bottom of the steps, Spot shoots him a sideways glance. There's a glint of amusement in his eyes when their gazes meet. "So you's admittin' that you's just took a jab at _me_?" He shakes his head, clicking his tongue under his breath as he walks down the street at a leisurely pace.

"Well, 'less you's got a problem with that, then yeah, that's what I's be doin'." Race is grinning back, feeling proud that he's managed to entertain the stony leader of Brooklyn.

He can't quite get over that yet.

Shoving his hands into his pockets, Race spits out the stub of his cigar and steps on it as he walks alongside Spot. It's dark, almost so dark that Race can't quite tell apart the blacks from the browns and the dark blues, but his vision has adjusted now. Besides, all he's really focusing on is Spot and how he reacts to the Manhattan atmosphere. It's definitely different than Brooklyn; there's no lingering feeling of being watched, no strong hunches of paranoia as they walk through the streets.

Well. At least not as much as usual. But that might be the cane in Spot's possession talking.

"Y'know, I can't help but think that you's be a little familiar, somehow." Spot has stopped walking now, leaning against a street lamp. He stares at Race's face, studying him, examining him. "I knows you knows me, but... I dunno."

Race shrugs. "I mighta passed by ya on me way t' Sheepshead. 'S my usual spot, y've probably seen me at least once or twice."

Realization dawns on Spot's face as his eyebrows fly up. "_You're_ Racetrack?" He ducks his head, snorting. "I thought you Manhattan boys knew t' stay outta me territory."

"C'mon, 's just one measly racetrack." But Race can tell that Spot's just joking around. He smirks. "'Sides, I lose halfa what I sell bettin'. At least, when I's be down in Brooklyn."

"Well, maybe you needs a good luck charm," Spot replies, returning the smirk, "Somethin' homegrown." He twirls his cane a few times before pushing off the street lamp. His steps are heading towards the lodging house now, and Race is tempted to step ahead of him to lead the way. Race knows the path better, but he doesn't want overstep Spot's place as leader.

"Yeah," Race agrees, his smirk becoming something closer to an actual smile, "I'll see t' that. But if you finds anythin' that might fit the bill, I's always willin' t' take somethin' offa the hands of the leader of Brooklyn."

That earns Race a wide smirk. "I'll see t' it, as well."

Almost grinning now, Race opens the door for Spot with an exaggerated bow. They break out into chuckles as they file in, clapping hands on each other's shoulders, chasing away the last pangs of Race's headache.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

Race sucks hard on his cigar, leaning against a street lamp outside the newsboys lodging house. In the back of his mind, he makes a note to buy some more... Scratch that. He makes a note to _acquire_ more.

But right now, he can't sleep. David came back empty handed a few hours ago, and the only upside to that was getting Les off his hands.

"This is fuckin' stupid."

Race nods in acknowledgement to Spot's presence and in agreement with his statement.

"'Ey, you's gonna give me one of those?" Spot gestures to the cigar clamped between Race's lips.

Lifting his eyebrows, Race turns his head to face the Brooklyn Newsie. "You serious?"

"I don't joke, _Racetrack_."

Race suppresses a frustrated noise. "Man, I go through a lotta shit t' get these. I thought you smokes cigarettes, anyhow."

All he gets in reply to that is a stony glare. Race frowns, his expression a borderline pout, and crosses his arms over his chest. "Come _on_. Gimme a break here."

Spot glares at Race, his lips pressed into a strained, straight line. Scowling, he digs a hand through his pocket, moving it to the other as he comes up with nothing. "Still want a damn smoke, though. This is gettin' real frustratin'."

"Tell me about it. Things're gonna be a real mess now that Jack's gone." Race takes a deep drag, looking at the stars thoughtfully. "Though I guess you's can be a replacement leader, since you's already lead Brooklyn."

"Hey, I don't play no replacement," Spot protests, jabbing a finger into Race's chest. With a sullen frown, he returns the hand to his body to cross his arms over his chest. "But, uh, I'll do it if it means continuin' with the strike."

Smirking, Race finishes his cigar and steps on it, reaching out to put an arm around Spot's shoulders. "'Ey, if you needs a guy who knows Manhattan like the back of his hands, you's can talk t' me. Remember that."

Spot snorts. "Yeah, sure. If you's can get me a pack o' smokes, I might consider it."

"Consider it a done deal, then," Race replies, grinning, "I knows where Jack's stash is. He won't miss it while he's gone, will he?"

Spot returns the grin. "Does it matter?"

* * *

"So what're you's doin' up so late, anyway?"

Race sighs, dangling his feet off the edge of the roof. "Eh. Can't sleep, y'know?" He throws a glance over his shoulder at Spot, only to see the near-black darkness of the night. The smell of smoke beside him tells him that the Brooklynite has moved to sit beside him, and he moves his gaze to the correct spot. "How's about you?"

Spot takes a long drag on his cigarette. Race thinks he might be bullshitting an answer, but the slight furrow in Spot's brow says otherwise.

"Me neither," Spot replies finally, smoke falling out of his mouth as he speaks. He's not looking at Race, but at something in the distance. A star, maybe, or a stray person wandering the streets during this ungodly hour of the morning.

Race leans his weight back on his hands. "Still haven't gotten used t' Manhattan?"

Spot shakes his head. "Nah, that ain't it. Been here plenty o' times before."

"Before you's was a big name Newsie, eh?" Race grins and nudges Spot in the ribs. When Spot's expression maintains its sombre look, Race realizes that maybe his words have more weight to them than he thought.

"Yeah." Spot looks down at the street, pausing to take another drag. "Yeah, you probably didn't know me then."

The quiet, calm tone Spot's voice is taking makes Race shift in his seat in discomfort. He smirks anyway. "Oh really now? Try me."

"Remember a 'Shrimpy'?"

Race chews on his bottom lip, racking his memories for the name. He's heard of 'Shrimp' or 'Shortie' or 'Half-Pint', but not 'Shrimpy'.

"Yeah, figured." Spot stands, dropping his cigarette stub onto the street below. "Always fit better in Brooklyn. No one cares as much if all you's got is your fists."

It takes Race a moment to rise to his feet as well. He opens his mouth to ask Spot to elaborate, but the Brooklyn Newsie is already heading down the fire escape before he can get the words out.

* * *

Race grumbles under his breath, shaking his soon-to-be bruised hand.

"You's gonna need a lotta practise with your fists if it hurts t' punch a _wall_."

Race looks up to see Spot approaching him. There's just something in the way the Brooklyn leader walks that causes Race's gaze to linger on him longer than necessary. Spot is scowling, twirling his cane with a frustrated speed, and yet he manages to maintain his usual swagger, a stride that only someone with power can execute so effortlessly.

"Shut up." It's not one of his wise-crack answers, but Race can't really spare one of those right now. With a frustrated noise, he stomps his foot and moves to lean against the wall he has just punched, a sullen look on his face that resembles a stubborn young boy taking a time out.

Race isn't alone in looking sulky. Spot's sporting an irritated scowl, his face an even harder glare than normal. He taps the ground with his cane once, harder a second time, before hefting it into the air to swing it like a bat.

"Damn bulls shoulda let me soak the two-timin' scabber, goddammit," Spot spits, reeling the cane back to swing it again. "Bringin' me all the way from Brooklyn and turnin' his goddamn heel on _me_? Never shoulda listened to that damn Mouth."

Race flinches. It might be away from the cane or it might be the insult to David, he isn't sure. Absently, he rubs his knuckles and grinds his teeth, all out of smart replies for once.

"God_damn_. Got a smoke?"

Spot has set down his cane now, but his grip on the handle is tight and white-knuckled. His gaze, aimed straight into Race's eyes, is stony and unwavering. Race can't suppress a shiver this time as he shakes his head.

"Let's grab some."

Wordlessly, Race pushes off the wall to follow Spot onto the streets. He pushes past bustling adults trying to gather the weekly produce, easily falling into the crowd. If there's one good thing about his small stature, it's the ability to duck out of anyone's sight with ease. He could even say the same thing about Spot if he's feeling daring, but then again, it's hard to miss a kid wielding a cane.

"Here, follow me, I's gonna get some cigars," Race mumbles into Spot's ear, leaning in close before stepping in front of him. Spot merely nods, allowing him to take the lead.

Catching Spot's eye, Race can see a slight glint of concern. Maybe it's because those last words are the only one he has muttered in five minutes, and it's not that much of an improvement from his words of greeting. Or maybe he's just seeing things he wants to see; it's an improvement from seeing Jack all dressed up in that damn gray suit, looking stony from suppressed guilt but refusing to budge.

There's something _so_ wrong about the whole ordeal. Race knows Jack would never let himself become one of _them_, but he was there, allowing Weasel to pat him down. Even _David_ couldn't get a proper answer out of him. They were all too worked up to really think about it, but Race _knows_ something's up. He just can't figure out what that is.

He stops outside his usual cigar shop. Putting a hand to Spot's chest to stop him, he peers inside. The owner is busy showing off a radio to a customer, the door open to let the occasional summer breeze blow through.

"Alright, look; there's some dope in there already distractin' the keep. I'll grab some smokes, just act as some back up in case that customer leaves, okay?"

Race can see Spot's teeth grinding in the way his jaw moves ever so slightly, but the Brooklynite simply nods in reply. He pats Spot on the shoulder in thanks and quietly ducks into the shop.

All the cigars and cigarettes are kept in the same place. There's a certain brand Race prefers, which is why he goes to this shop more often than the others, but he's not so sure about Spot. He takes a moment to think it over and decides that the most expensive one is probably the best. Race swipes them, glances behind him to make sure the owner isn't looking, then ducks back out of the shop with swift and silent feet.

Spot catches him on his way out. He grabs one of Race's shoulders before weaving their way into the crowd, hoping to avoid the shop keeper's notice. They run into an alley, crates and garbage littered all over the place. Race kicks a crate onto flat ground and takes a seat. Spot does the same. When they're both settled, Race throws a pack of cigarettes at Spot's chest.

The Brooklynite catches it before it hits him, holding it in front of his face to examine it. "Damn. You got the real expensive ones, too. Got a light?" He doesn't look up as he opens the pack, but Race hums in affirmation.

Race stands, hooks a foot into a hole in his crate, and drags it over to Spot's. Reaching over, he pulls out one of the cigarettes and puts it to the end of his cigar, the same thing Spot had done to his smoke a few days ago.

Silence fall over the pair as they smoke, not quite focused on anything. Race tries to study a roach as it skitters across the ground, but he can't maintain his gaze. Eventually, his eyes move to look at the bright blue sky of a summer afternoon.

"You really think Dave can keep this thing together?" Race asks, smoke falling out of his mouth as he speaks.

Smoke comes out of Spot's mouth in a low whistle. "Prob'ly not. Kid ain't much of a leader. Knows what he's sayin', but not everyone's willin' t' listen. He don't know how t' _make_ 'em listen."

Race nods his reluctant agreement. The strike had been a bad idea from the start, anyway. He sighs, smoke rising to wisp around his face. Really, the cigar hadn't done anything to make him feel better, not like he'd hoped.

When Spot's cigarette burns out, he throws it into the corner of the alley before standing up. "No reason to stay here anymore. If there ain't no strike, you bums don't need Brooklyn."

Race looks up sharply. His own smoke has burned down to a stub, and he spits it out before saying, "So you's just gonna leave?"

With a smirk, Spot replies, "'Ey, I knows you's gonna miss me, but just head on down t' Sheepshead again and I'll meet you at the bridge."

Race can't help but smile back. "Yeah, sure. If I ever gets enough money to sell papes again, that is. I'm broke."

"Maybe one day, then." Spot pats Race's shoulder. "Don't look so glum. I knows it's hard not t' miss this face, but 'ey, you just gotta hang on t' the hope that one day we'll meet again."

Race stands and shoves Spot lightly, rolling his eyes. "Asshole. You's full of yourself, y'know that?"

The smirk on Spot's face widens to a full-out grin. "How can I not be? 'Specially with this mug, and these brains, and this strength..."

Race shoves him again. "When're you's leavin', then?"

"I dunno," Spot replies with a shrug. He has already started walking out of the alley, waving a hand to beckon Race to follow him, "If I heads down now, I can catch dinner at the lodging house. 'Sides, it ain't like I's got anything better t' do."

Nodding, Race falls into step with Spot eaily. "Yeah. And don't forget; when you's down there, look for a good luck charm for me, eh? Maybe you's can find somethin' 'fore I come back t' Sheepshead."

With a grin, Spot beats his chest. "Hey, I never forgets things like these. 'Sides, I gotta pay you back for these smokes."

"Done deal, then?" Race lifts his eyebrows, catching Spot's gaze. The Brooklyn Newsie spits into his hand, hiding a small smile behind it. Returning the smile with a grin, Race does the same thing before extending his hand for a firm handshake.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

"_When you've got a million voices singing_

_Who can hear a lousy whistle blow?_

_And the World will know_!"

The grin on Race's face is so wide it's threatening to split his face in half. His hands are on Jack's shoulders, David's, Blink's, Mush's, but his eyes are focused on the crowd. There are so many kids, so many people shouting...

His grin grows a little more. "Dear me. What have we here?"

Spot's eyes meet his and he grins back, hefting his cane into the air. "Brooklyn!"

* * *

To say that Race is high off the taste of victory is a rather accurate statement. He has an arm slung around Spot's shoulders, the other patting Jack on the back.

"We did it," is his mantra, and he's grinning and laughing and repeating the phrase again and again. Spot's grip around his middle tightens and he's smiling too, looking over his shoulder and catching his gaze every now and then. They exchange the words over and over as if to reassure each other that what happened actually _happened_, that their triumph is real and true.

And to think a bunch of street rat kids could accomplish something like _this_. Race's existence feels a little more validated now.

* * *

"Dear me. Are you off again?"

Spot smiles and tips his hat. "Yeah. But I'll see you on the other side of the bridge, yeah?"

Race shakes his head, lifting his stack of newspapers onto his shoulder. He leans in to clap Spot on the back in a half-hug.

"In a while." Rocking back on his heels, Race digs into his pocket for a cigarette (he'd stolen two packs the other day as a replacement for the ones he'd taken from Jack, but after seeing him with money in his pockets he hadn't been too inclined to give them back) and pops it into his mouth. "But damn, Spot, I can't believe that you's gonna ride in Roosevelt's carriage this time."

"Hey, every leader's gotta have their own time in that thing, eh?" He taps the brim of Race's hat with his cane. "Don't sweat it. Ain't like he's givin' me money, either."

Spot sticks a hand into his pocket and produces a match, dangling it in front of Race's face. "Go catch up with your pals. I'll see ya on the other side of the bridge."

With some hesitance, Race takes the offered match. The crowd from earlier is bustling behind him; he won't have to move much in order to catch up with his friends.

Spot walks backwards to the carriage, smirking at Race all the way there.

* * *

As Race crosses the Brooklyn bridge, he keeps his eyes peeled for Spot. He doesn't see anything but the cold gazes of the Brooklyn Newsies surrounding him. Despite the shivers their eyes elicit, Race continues to take his time.

When he gets to Sheepshead Bay, he glances over his shoulder one more time.

* * *

Race's legs dangle off the side of the bridge. Manhattan is just a few minutes away, but he's still waiting. Shielding his eyes from the setting sun with one hand, Racetrack reaches into his pocket to find a cigar.

"Got a smoke?"

Wincing from the slight pain caused by turning his head around so quickly, Race finds Spot standing above him, smirking slightly.

"The hell, Conlon? _Now's _the time you decide t' drop on by?" Race glares up at Spot as the Brooklynite moves to sit beside him. He gets a blank look in return.

"I ain't got no obligations t' you, _Higgins_, so don't you's nag on me like some _girl_," Spot replies in a harsh tone.

Race flinches again. He should have expected that.

Grumbling, Race goes through his pockets to retrieve his pack of cigars. "No cigs on me. Sorry about that, Mr. King o' Brooklyn."

"Oh, quit bein' such a baby, Race." Spot leans over Race's shoulder to pluck a cigar out of its case. "Else I won't shows ya what I picked up today."

Race perks up at that. So Spot hasn't forgotten. "Yeah? You's picked up a lucky charm for me? Now that I's back t' sellin' at Sheepshead I, uh, I already lost halfa me profits for today."

Race smirks. "Then I suppose you's especially need it now." Sitting up a little taller, he shoves a hand into his pocket and fishes around. Slowly he drags out a thick, metal chain, the links sliding out of his pants inch by inch. It's about two feet long, and on the end of the length is a charm in the shape of a sleek, running horse. Race almost drops his match as he watches the chain hang from Spot's fingers.

"Rub it for good luck," Spot says, holding it out as an offering, "And it's even long enough t' be used as a weapon."

Race's eyebrows rise, but he hesitantly reaches out to take the chain. Spot manages to catch his match and use it to light his cigar before it falls into the waters below. "So lemme guess, your cane's lucky, too?"

"Of course," Spot replies, giving his cane a twirl, "Helped me get where I's is today."

With a wry smile, Race says, "You sure that was luck and not somethin' else?"

"Oh, Race, you's flatterin' me." Grinning, Spot gives Race a weak, playful shove. "But yeah. The thing's sturdy, can definitely go throughs a lotta wear an' tear 'fore breakin'. Discreet, too, so none of your Manhattan boys'll suspect a thing. Use it as a belt or somethin', I don't think it matters."

Race purses his lips and wiggles his cigar in his mouth, finding an opening in the furthest link from the charm. He slips it into one of his belt loops and puts the charm away in his pocket.

"Well? Whaddya think?" Spot stares at him expectantly, looking almost... excited.

"It's great and all, Spot, but, uh..." Race trails off, glancing away and at the water. It's a dark blue now; the sun has just finished setting and now the surface reflects a navy blue sky.

"But what?"

"Well, uh... I dunno if I's ever gonna use it like that, y'know?" He ducks his head, trying to avoid Spot's eyes. "But I'm sure it's lucky like you's said."

Spot studies him for a moment. "Yeah. Yeah, I's can understand that." He stands, tugging on Race's shoulder to pull him up with him. "But ain't it nice knowin' that you's got somethin' t' fall back on?"

Race nods, his voice faltering under Spot's heavy gaze. "Y-Yeah. Thanks a lot, man, I really 'preciate alla this."

Smiling - though Spot's smiles often resemble smirks, so it's hard to really know - Spot leans in to clap Race on the shoulder. "'Ey, it ain't a problem. 'Sides, I always repay favors." Taking a step back, Spot taps the side of his cigar. "And don't forget those smokes ya stole the other day."

"None o' that was a problem, really."

"Yeah, well, neither was this." With a crooked smile, Spot blows smoke in Race's face. "I'll see ya tomorrow. Carryin' the banner."

Race flinches away from the smoke, but he manages a weak smile in return. "Yeah. Maybe I'll be able t' keep me money tomorrow, eh?"

Spot shakes his head and snorts. "You will. 'Night." With a small wave, he turns his heel and heads down to the other side of the bridge.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four**

"You's in late today, ain't ya?"

Race looks up to see Jack leaning against the street lamp outside of the lodging house. His steps slow, the hand in his pocket reflexively tightening around the charm inside.

"Yeah, so what? You ain't me mother," Race replies, his eyebrows rising.

Jack snorts, smoke falling out of his nostrils. "Nah, I ain't your mother, but that don't mean I can't worry when you's spendin' most of your day over the Brooklyn bridge." He pauses to take a drag. "How's Spot, by the way?"

"Just peachy." Race pulls his hand out of his pockets, the other one going into the other pocket to produce a cigarette of his own. "You's shouldn't spend your time worryin' 'bout me, Jack, I'm sure you's got better things t' put your mind to, as limited as them things may be."

Pushing off the street lamp, Jack steps in close to Race to put an arm around him. They both exhale at the same time, the menthol smoke mingling in the air for a moment before dissipating.

"Just as long as 'em Brooklyn newsies don't lay a hand on ya, alright? 'Cause then I might haveta talk t' Spot."

Race is tempted to shake Jack's hold off his shoulders. "Look, even if that was t' happen, I's can take care of meself. Ain't like I's afraid o' Spot or anythin'."

It's Jack's turn to lift his eyebrows. "That so?"

"Hey, I don't lie," Race replies with a grin. He knows Jack pretty damn well; he doesn't miss Jack's slight flinch. "Don't. Worry. If I's get into a lick o' trouble, you'll be the first one t' know, alright?"

Jack starts to steer them both into the lodging house. "Yeah, I'll make sure o' that."

* * *

Race spits out the stub of his cigar and hefts his stack of newspapers higher on his shoulder. He's about to head out to his usual selling spot when Blink and Mush skid in front of him, hanging off each other's shoulders and regarding him with wide eyes.

"So, so's it true? You's friends with Spot Conlon?" Blink asks, pushing off Mush to lean in closer to Race.

Mush rolls his eyes and pushes him back down. "Will you ever learn t' be discreet?" With a secretive smile, he looks back to Race. "But yeah, I heard you's on real friendly terms with him."

Groaning, Race resists the urge to slap his forehead. "Jack never learns t' shut his mouth, does he?"

"Nope!" the pair chirp together. "So's it true, or what?"

Race walks past them, adjusting his newspapers one more time. "Yeah, it's true. I don't see the big deal."

"'The big deal'?" Mush gasps, letting go of Blink to catch up with Race, "This is Spot Conlon we're talkin' 'bout, here! The stone-faced, hardass leader o' Brooklyn!"

"You guys know all them rumors ain't true. He sat with us all friendly like at the rally an' everythin'."

Blink steps up to Race's other side. "Yeah, but he was with Jack and Davey only! They was the leaders an' all, so they had t' sit together!"

"So why don't you's ask them about it?" Race stops, sighing. The pair flanking his sides stop a few steps ahead of him before turning around to shoot him a curious look. "Just- I told him I sell's at Sheepshead, so he decided t' talk t' me. That's all. Ain't like I's his best friend or nothin'."

A moment of silence passes as Race stares the both of them down. Once it seems like neither Blink or Mush have anything else to add, he mumbles a quiet goodbye and heads in the direction of the bridge.

About ten feet away from where he was originally, Race can hear Blink and Mush whispering loudly to each other. He knows that if he glances behind his shoulder, they'll freeze and give him a deer-in-headlights expression. Despite the fact that it would be hilarious, Race decides to pass the opportunity up; he's already ten minutes behind schedule, and if he's early, he might just catch Spot by the docks.

* * *

"Goddamn Jack and his big-mouthed, mother-hennin'..." Race trails off into unintelligible mumbling. It's cut off with a drag of his cigar and he shoves his free hand into his pocket. He's quick to curl his hand around the metal charm he finds in it.

"Hey Race!"

Race looks up to see David running up to him. Looking over his shoulder, he can see Jack send them a glance. Their eyes meet for a brief moment, but Jack ducks his head and opens the door to the lodging house to avoid his gaze.

"Hey Davey," Race replies with a friendly smile. It's hard to be mean to Davey, he finds, but that might be because David never gives them a reason to be angry with him. He's all worry and responsibility; any ill will to the newcomer lasts all but three minutes at the most.

David returns the smile easily, slinging an arm around Race's shoulders. "So how have you been lately?"

Snorting, Race exhales smoke between his teeth. "Never better. How's your dad, by the way? Gettin' any better?"

"Unfortunately."

Race glances up at David in mild surprise. The taller boy smiles slyly before they both break out into wide grins.

"So," David starts after a moment of quiet mirth, "Jack tells me you-"

With a loud groan, Race interrupts David by saying, "Oh lord, don't tell me- he tolds ya that I's been spendin' too much time over at Sheepshead an' that, oh, I dunno, bein' in Brooklyn too much'll mess with me head."

"Race..." Sighing, David leads Race onto the sidewalk. The setting sun shines bright rays into his eyes, and Race adjusts his hat so that he isn't entirely blinded. "He's only worried, you know? We all know that you're more than capable of taking care of yourself. But you know Jack; he doesn't like it that Spot may be trying to steal you and take you over to Brook-"

Race laughs, clutching at his stomach. "Oh wow, that's rich." He slips out of David's grip easily, tossing his burnt out cigar into the street. "Seriously. First off, it ain't like I's Jack's _property_. An', an' _secondly_, there ain't a reason for Spot t' wanna bring me over t' Brooklyn."

His voice loses some of its certainty once he utters his last word. If he thinks about it, Jack sort of has a reason to worry, since he's spending so much time with Spot all of a sudden... And they've known each other for years, to just up and leave must be an upsetting thought-

David stares at Race with quiet, observing eyes. In response, Race averts his gaze and chews on his bottom lip.

"Look, Race, no one's trying to blame anyone here." David pauses with a slight tilt of his head, "Well, at least they shouldn't. And you guys _know_ you shouldn't, so it'd just be better if you guys stopped fighting, okay? Jack steps on people's toes sometimes, and so do you, so if anything, you're both in the wrong."

One of the only times Race is willing to be quiet is when he has to listen to something worthwhile, and almost everything that comes out of David's mouth is just that. He'd be lying if he said he doesn't feel like a kid who's just had their wrist slapped, or put in the corner for a time-out.

After a moment of sullen silence, Race shoves his hands in his pockets and kicks at a pebble on the street. His thumbs grazes over the charm as he says, "Fine. I'll talk t' him later, alright? Right now I's gonna grab me somethin' t' eat."

"Good." David's wide smile makes Race feel a little better about losing the argument. "Mind if I join you, then?"

"Not at all, Davey," he replies, finding no difficulty in returning the smile aimed at him. "Got enough money for Tibby's?"

David reached out to ruffle Race's hair. "Yeah. I do."

* * *

"Hey."

Race almost drops his cigar onto the street below, his fingers fumbling with his match. "The hell? _Spot_? What'n the world're you's doin' over here?"

The Brooklynite approaches Race at a leisurely pace, swinging his cane absently as he walks. "What, so I's not allowed t' visit _you_?" With a wide grin that looks more like baring his teeth than an actual smile, Spot drops down on the roof next to Race to sit beside him.

"Uh, no, that ain't it," Race replies, his voice faltering. It's a surprise; the grand ol' leader of Brooklyn hardly ever crosses the bridge without good reason. As he thinks of a proper way to express his shock, he lights up and takes a few short puffs. "Just- Just unusual, s'all."

The grin on Spot's face softens into a smirk. "When were I ever 'usual', Race?"

Snorting, Race ducks his head and gives it a slight shake. "Never, I s'pose." He takes a long drag. "Everythin' makes more sense when ya puts it that way."

"Damn good explanation," Spot agrees with a sagely nod. "The beauty lies in its ambiguity."

Race smiles wryly. "What, so you's actually been readin' your papes lately?"

"Hey, I don't needs t' read the damn pape t' know the words in it," Spot says, rolling his eyes.

For once it's solely Race smoking; Spot doesn't ask him for one, and he doesn't pull one out, either. From what Race can tell with a sideways glance, the Brooklynite looks content to merely sit back on the heels of his palms and stare at the stars.

"So I's been hearin' your name around lately, Race," Spot begins after a moment of silence, "More so than usual."

"You's used t' hearin' me name?"

Spot grins. "Yeah, 'specially when you's hittin' a winnin' streak. Horse bettin's a well known trade 'round Brooklyn, you knows that.

"But 'sides that, I've been hearin' from little birds... That you's me right hand man now." He laughs, and the genuine mirth in it surprises Race. It's not sardonic or mocking; he seems outright amused.

"What, so I's ain't good enough t' be your right hand man?" Race asks, sorely tempted to blow smoke into Spot's face. Instead it comes out between his teeth in a low whistle, practically spat out.

Spot glances sideways and catches the irritated look on Race's countenance. He shakes his head, reaching out to sling an arm around Race's shoulders.

"Nah, that ain't it, far from it." He looks straight into Race's eyes as he speaks. Unnerved, Race fidgets a bit, wondering why he hasn't gotten used to that intense, blue stare yet. "I just finds it hilarious how fast word moves, y'know? A little over a week and already people're assumin' things..."

A smile works its way onto Race's face, and he surprises himself with the sheer amount of relief in the expression. He puts an arm around Spot's shoulders and takes a long drag, feeling content.

"Well, when you's involved, I'd think that word would move faster than them horses I's bettin' on," he says, grinning around smoke and words.

With a nod, Spot grins back. "Sometimes I wonder why you's ain't me right hand man."

Race fumbles with the smoke between his lips. After replacing it in his mouth and taking a thoughtful drag, he replies, "You know damn well why I's ain't your right hand man."

Spot nods again. "Yeah. I do." He reaches over to snatch Race's cigar for a quick, deep drag. His face scrunches up like he's about to cough, but his breath merely comes out in a smoky, swift exhale.

Holding out the cigar for Race to take, Spot moves to stand up. Race takes it, watching Spot move with cautious eyes.

"Stay in Manhattan, Race," he says, his tone dead serious. His expression matches it perfectly. "You's don't belong in Brooklyn."

There's nothing for Race to do but nod in silent agreement. He takes the burnt end of his cigar and rolls it in his fingers, staring at it as he thinks.

"Y'know... I's been wonderin' how the hell you's ended up in Brooklyn." With a silent goodbye, Race flicks the end of the cigar onto the streets below, refusing to look up at Spot all the while. "You's did say you's used t' frequent Manhattan, yeah?"

Spot's eyes move from the cigar butt to the street then back again to Race's hand. Pursing his lips, he shoves his cane into its proper place before stuffing his hands into his pockets. "I's didn't really belong here in Manhattan." He smirks, though it looks more like a bitter smile than a smug expression. "They's couldn't really handle me, y'know? All fight and no respect. None for others, or _from_ others, neither."

His eyes return to Race's. "But that's just how I's ended up in Brooklyn. Becomin' their leader, well." He snorts, turning on his heel. "That's for another time." He stops by the fire escape. "'Night, Race."

Race has already scrambled to his feet to follow behind Spot, maybe pry some more answers from him, but he stops once the Brooklynite stops by the steps. A hand finds its way into his pocket and grips his charm. "'Night, Spot."


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter Five**

It's been a while since Race has felt his feet dangle. Despite his small stature, people have learned that it's better not to mess with this tiny Italian kid if they wanted to leave their dignity in tact.

His wit can't help him now. There are no oppotunities to goad, to provoke and inevitably trap: this is purely physical, and he can hear David's concern and Jack's contempt ringing in his ears at the same time.

"Think you c'n just worm y'r way into th' ranks, shrimp?" the boy holding him by his shoulders sneers, leaning in much too close for comfort, "Think y' c'n just- just walk up t' th' ring leader and get inta his circle, s'that it?"

Race opens his mouth, but his attacker's free hand clamps down on his throat before any words can come out.

"Don't even start," his attacker growls, glaring, "I's knows that you's gotta 'slick tongue'." He spits out the last two words with immense contempt. "That won't help ya this time."

Race makes a strangled sound for the sake of doing _something_. He feels completely and utterly helpless; god, it's been a while since that last happened. There's no way he can reach into his pocket and grab the chain in there; at this proximity, it's too easy to follow every move Race makes.

He manages to gather enough composure to level a glare at the bully, asking "what now?" without even opening his mouth.

The bully raises his eyebrows and digs his arms deeper into Race's body. "Well, we's has all th'time in th'world, don't we?"

Race can feel his eyes starting to roll into the back of his head. Why he can't just drift into sweet nothingness, he has no clue. It would be so, so much easier than dangling, feeling his blood struggle to reach his brain and keep him conscious.

"F- F-" Race began to splutter because god_dammit_ he's so frustrated and angry and indignant and it's been _way_ too long since he's said anything, "F- Fuck- Fuck _you_-"

"That's it!" his attacker bellows, moving his other hand back to Race's throat to lift him higher off the ground. Race's eyes bulge open and he chokes, his mouth moving as he tries so hard to gasp air into his lungs and avoid _death_-

"What the _fuck_ d'you think you're doin'?"

Race has just enough energy to recognize that voice, but not quite enough to grin.

Spot lifts his cane and slams it against the bully's skull. The hit is met with a satisfying crack and Spot's victim crumples into a heap of arms and legs in a matter of seconds.

Spitting on the groud, Spot twirls his cane. "Too easy."

Once he has his cane put in its proper place in his belt, Spot offers Race a hand. With a shaky grip, Race lets himself get pulled to his feet. He falters, stumbling as he tries not to lean too much weight on the Brooklynite.

"Easy, Race, easy," Spot murmurs, slipping an arm under Race's. He drags the boy closer to him, giving him as much support as he can offer, "Don't worry, I gotcha."

There's only the sound of Race's desperate breaths filling the air as the pair stand against each other. Race's eyes are closed; he doesn't want to see the pity Spot must be aiming at him, or, worse, the possibilty of there being genuine concern in the Brooklyn newsie's eyes.

When Race's blood feels like it's pumping to all the right spots at the right rate, he chances a look at his companion. Spot's hard, blue eyes greet him immediately and it's difficult for Race to suppress the initial flinch.

"You alright?" Spot asks, ignoring the reaction for now.

"I... I think so, yeah," Race replies, his voice rattling out of his abused throat in a quiet breath. He clears his throat and tries again, "Th-Thanks for... that. Helpin' me out."

Spot clicks his tongue and Race thinks he just might spit again. "It was nothin'. That dumbass's been pushin' his luck lately, this's a good excuse t'show him just what exactly he's been pushin'."

Spot props Race upright and begins to lead him away from the alley the Manhattan newsie had been conered in, kicking the fallen boy on their way out. It's a good thing the two newsies are around the same height; there's less pressure on his shoulders and back.

"How did you's even end up in sucha predicament?" Spot asks him, his eyerbrows raised. The tone he uses is casual, almost mocking, but his steady gaze betrays his uncaring attitude.

Race shakes off the oncoming shudder and looks somewhere to his left. "Was just coming down the docks and the bastard grabbed me by th'back of me collar, dragged me down here and started roughin' me up."

This time Race can't stop the shiver that grips his body. It's been much too long since he's been attacked like that; he really can't handle Brooklyn, can he?

"You shouldn't come here so often." Spot looks away, too; Race can tell by the way the Brooklynite's hair brushes his ear. "You ain't used t'these streets, Race."

"Hey, this's the _one_ time this's gonna happen, Spot, I swears it," Race replies a little too quickly to be normal. He makes up for his slip by puffing up his chest. Immediately, he regrets it; his lungs ache, his throat aches, and the sudden intake of breath is more painful than he had imagined it would be. "I mean, now I knows not to walk by here so damn casual like."

Spot chuckles under his breath, mirth shaking his shoulders. "It'll take ya more lessons'n that, Race, t'be able t'survive these streets. An' I don't think Jacky-boy'd appreciate you in shreds."

"Fuck what 'e thinks, ain't I allowed t'do whatever I want?"

"Sure y'are, just don't come complainin' t'me when he starts gettin' all preachy an' defensive on your ass," Spot replies, his chuckles a full out snort now. "You's important t'him an' obviously 'e ain't afraid to show it."

A bit stunned, Race is left speechless. What the hell is he supposed to say to that? It's not common for Race to betray his friends' trust, and if Jack trusts him not to make a fool out of himself and get soaked, then he should respect that. He knows his boundaries better than he'd like to admit; hell, he doesn't even want to admit he has limits, but everyone does.

Race rolls his shoulders. Spot loosens his grip, but he doesn't let go. "Fuck, Spot, how the hell'd you end up the king o' this place, anyway?"

Spot snorts again, muttering "king" under his breath. "I likes t'call it strength and perseverance, but lots likes t'call it brute force and stubbornness. If no one listens t'me, I make 'em listen, and I wanted everyone to listen. Eventually, I did, and no one regrets makin' that decision."

That sounds about right, if Race knew Spot at all. But he does know Spot pretty damn well by now, and he knows that cannot be all to his story. "C'mon, man, there has t'be more'n that."

"What, d'you want every single detail? I could tell a goddamn epic about me life, Race, don't make me some piece'a folklore, now."

Quiet for a moment, Race scuffs his shoe on the ground. "Still... Musta taken ya a while t'get t'the top..."

This time, Spot does spit. Luckily, it's in the opposite direction of where Race is walking. "It _did_, didn't never tell you it didn't. Was a fuckin' runt then, s'why I've been in this position so long." He aims a crooked grin in Race's direction. "When you get your ass kicked by a fuckin' runt, you's gotta let 'im stay, else it just ain't fair. 'Sides, with their tails 'tween their legs like that, they didn't have no other choice in th'matter."

Race's eyebrows rise to his hairline. "Jesus, Spot. You're crazy."

"Tell me somethin' new, why don't ya."

* * *

Race sighs around his cigar. The sun has already dipped past the horizon and despite the fact that he doesn't want to leave Brooklyn, not yet, the idea that maybe Jack's worrying about him is nagging him in the back of his mind.

What annoys him the most is that it's actually getting to him, making him distracted as Spot tells him something about some new kid and how he's been roughed around lately.

"Reminds me a lotta myself, actually," Spot is saying, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips, "Tiny, scrawny, nothing too unusual, but tough as a motherfucker. He's takin' on kids three times his size and not backing down."

"Maybe he can be your right hand man," Race says, glancing back at Spot for a second. He catches the small smile gracing the boy's face, but he also watches as it falls.

"Yeah," Spot agrees, albeit slowly, "Maybe. I guess I gotta keep the next generation in line."

With a shrug, Race looks away again. "It'll make things a lot easier in th'long run."

"Probably."

The slightly sullen look on Spot's face garners Race's full attention once more. "Hey, don't be like that. You still got a long time left, y'know that."

Spot sighs, leaning away from Race. He takes his legs off the edge of the roof they're sitting on and puts his back against the short railing supporting the pair, dragging his knees to his chest.

"You gotta point, though," he says in a tone so quiet Race has to strain to hear him, "What am I- I mean, I've been soaking kids and selling papes ever since I can remember. What'm I supposed t'do after alla that, huh?"

Race makes a choked noise under his breath. That's a hard question. Race can say pretty much the same thing for himself, minus the soaking kids and getting to the top part- which, although it wasn't said outright, was definitely implied.

"I dunno, Spot." Is it getting a little warm out here, or is it just him? "Like- Like I said, you still gots a lotta time left 'fore you even gotta consider anythin' like that."

"_Still_." Spot's harsh tone makes Race jump in his seat. He decides to stand up to avoid any mishaps. "Even Jack has- had a dream. He ain't going through with it 'cause of David and that girl, but it's still somethin'. I got nothin'."

It's so unusual to see Spot uncertain about anything. If he's honest, Race likes to avoid the idea of the future as much as possible, but it's a slight comfort to know he's not the only one.

"If it makes you feel any better," Race starts, offering a hand to the boy on the floor, "I ain't got nothin' neither. An' if we still gots nothin' by the time we's too old t'be sellin' papes, we can team up and see where the world takes us." He smiles wryly. "That sound appealin' at all?"

Returning the crooked smile, Spot takes the hand and hauls himself up. "Sounds better than nothin'. You gotta deal, then."

The pair spits into their hands and exchange a handshake. Once they let go, Spot puts his hands on Race's shoulders and leads him to the fire escape.

"C'mon, I know your little mother hen must be lookin' for ya by now."

"Which, Davey or Jack?"

Laughing, Spot swipes his hand over the top of Race's hair. "Both."

* * *

The moon is high in the sky when the pair returns to the lodging house. To Race's surprise, both Jack and David are waiting for him by the door.

"Ain't ya supposed t'be home by now, Davey?" Race asks, lifting both eyebrows. Spot's presence beside him gives Race a bit of confidence he normally would be lacking when confronting Jack and David _together_.

"I could ask the same thing," David retorts. The tone of voice startles Race; he's never heard that tone directed at him. In fact, he's only heard that tone of voice when Jack became a fuckin' _scab_.

"You." Race turns his gaze to find Jack about a foot away from Spot. He's staring the Brooklynite down the bridge of his nose, trying to use his height as leverage. "The fuck d'you think you're doin' just, just waltzin' down here like you own the damn place, bringing back Racetrack at an ungodly hour when you _know_ just exactly what time we get up-"

"Jesus fucking christ, cowboy!" In seconds, Spot has his cane in his hand and is prodding Jack's chest in order to create some distance between them. "The fuck are you yammerin' about? Race has a fuckin' _bedtime_ now? What the hell!" He jabs Jack with extra force this time, drawing a flinch from the taller boy. "I fuckin' walked him over here, _Jack_, so that means it'll take me extra time to get back. That's two birds with one stone, y'know. You don't gotta worry about him gettin' jumped in some alley _and_ I gotta suffer through tomorrow with only 'bout six hours of sleep."

That response has Jack quiet for a while. David's standing behind Jack now, just in case he needs assistance. The newcomer catches Race's eye for a second though; scratch that, the guy's practically checking Race out with the way his eyes are raking over his body.

"The fuck is your problem?" Race asks, aiming the question at both of them but returning David's stare. "I'm in one fuckin' piece _and_ I brought Spot for a little visit, ain't that good enough for you?"

"Your throat," David says, totally ignoring Race's question. He approaches the shorter boy and pulls his collar away from his neck. "It's covered in bruises. What the hell happened to you?"

Race has completely forgotten about that. Slowly, he reaches up to prod at the marks in question and winces when he finds the area tender.

"I... Some dumbass just-" Goddammit, this is exactly what Jack didn't want to see, what the fuck should he do now, "Just- Fuck, he jumped me in an alley. That's what fuckin' happened."

David and Jack blow up at the same time, yelling in unison. Jack is yelling at Spot, who gradually slides up to Race's elbow, and David is yelling at both of them. Their wild hand gestures and raised voices overwhelm Race, make his head start to swim.

"Shut! Up!" Spot hollers, bringing his cane to the floor to emphasize his words. "Both of you, shut the fuck up before I _soak_ the both of you-"

"You wouldn't," Jack hisses, "Not like I'd let you anyway-"

"Didn't I tell you to shut up?" Spot interjects, managing to raise his voice over Jack's, "Shut the _fuck_ up, Kelly."

The Brooklyn leader crosses his arms, his cane still in his hand, and waits for Jack to close his mouth. Once Jack does so, he levels a glare at the shorter boy. Every now and then, his gaze flickers to Race, unnerving him every time.

"Look, it's his choice, ain't it? You ain't his momma, just some unofficial leader'a this mangy pack'a kids," Spot sneers, "I know you ain't got no semblance'a no life, so you's can just stand around all night lookin' out for Race like he's some kid. But y'know what? It's your fuckin' loss, numbskulls; Race's gotta life outside'a you's. An' you know what else? I'm in it. That means that he's gonna visit Brooklyn every now'n then, you got that? It is goin' to fuckin' happen, an' no amount'a pesterin' or naggin's gonna make'im stop."

The Brooklynite slithers an arm around Race's shoulders; it's stiff, and his grip is much tigher than Race would have anticipated, or found comfortable for that matter. But Spot is still glaring up at Jack, his gaze unwavering. The hold is just another nail in the coffin.

"We're not saying that he shouldn't see you or anything, Spot, it's just-" David says, breaking the short lived silence, "I mean- look at his neck for god's sake! I doubt he would have encountered anything like that over here."

"So what, you want me t'leave th'kids over in Brooklyn by themselves for the sake'a Race?" Spot snaps, "I can't, not even for him. The place'd fall apart before you can say fuck me sideways an' then th'whole city's gonna be after my ass. An' if that ass's here, you's all're gettin' fucked, too."

"Well, if this's all Race's choice, how come you's speakin' for him, huh?" Jack crosses his arms, mirroring Spot's pose. While he lacks the cane, he does make up for it in his height; he stares down the bridge of his nose, glaring heatedly at Spot. "You ain't leader 'round here."

Jack looks over Spot's head to stare at Race. The shorter newsie swallows thickly under his unrelenting glare. "So what's your say?"

"Are you makin' me fuckin' choose, is that your deal?" Race runs a hand through his hair, his breath rattling as it leaves his bruised throat. "'Cause you know s'well as I do that this's my home. I ain't leavin'. But that don't mean that I ain't seein' Spot no more."

He takes a few more deep breaths and breaks into a coughing fit. When his breath calms down, Race lashes out at the air with his fists and nearly screams. "Just- God fuckin' dammit, I'm sick of havin' this fight! I ain't leavin' ya, Jack, you's one o' me best pals. We got years behind us, don't you fuckin' dare think that I's forgotten that." Jack moves to touch his shoulder, but Race shakes him off, removing Spot's arm from his body as well. "But look- you want me t'give up havin' Spot as a friend just 'cause it's a bit dangerous over there? Jesus Christ, Kelly, what the fuck d'you take me for? That's a shit cover an' you know it. You ain't losin' me, y'just gotta learn how t'share."

Breathing harshly, Race presses the heels of his palms into his eyes. "This's the last I'm hearin' bout this, else I'm really outta here. Now let me get some goddamn sleep."

Without another word, Racetrack shoulders past the boys crowding around him and moves to wrench the door to the lodging house open. He gives them one last glance and finds their gazes fixed on him, speechless. The newsie scowls and enters the building, slamming the door shut on his way in.


End file.
